


I have called you by name, you are mine

by linil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Pre-Canon, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linil/pseuds/linil
Summary: The Eye does not Love.Jon does.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker & Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	I have called you by name, you are mine

**Author's Note:**

> sorry that this kind of finishes weird, i’m not smart enough or drunk enough to try and figure out how the timeline would work with Sasha as archivist and that sort of includes the rest of the characters
> 
> because of that it feels unnecessary for me to have made sasha archivist but i’ve done it now so too bad
> 
> also yes i’m sorry that i’m subjecting you to more fucking touchy found family but apparently this is just what i do

The Eye does not Love. 

The Eye Watches and The Eye Knows. The Eye Knows the shape of love, the chemical imbalance of a creature’s brain that induces love. The Eye Knows love in the keystone of every story, the justification of every fight and the herald of every peace. The excuse and the burden of love. The illusion.

The Eye does not Love. The Eye sinks claws into every modicum of Knowledge possible, and will not let go.

Jon meets Sasha and Tim when he’s just another researcher at the Institute, before their worlds are distorted beyond repair. When he’s still just Jon.

He walks into the office for the first time, back straight, hair combed neatly away from his face, chin tilted up but jaw tensed. He’s not great with new people. He’s not great with _any_ people, really, but he’s not about to let on how quietly scared he is of their eyes on him. Knowing him, seeing him, and finding him wanting. 

There are only two people in there at the time. One of them looks up and notices Jon at the door. They flash him a smile oozing with charm, lean muscles rippling as they stand to greet him and, now that they’re up, Jon can see the person is at least half a foot taller than him. None of this is helping the fear curdling in Jon’s stomach. 

They come to stand just in front of Jon, essentially boxing him into the doorway, and Jon has to crane his neck back to meet their eyes. He clenches his jaw and does his best not to snap his pen in two with how hard he’s gripping it. 

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you.” Jon almost stumbles over his tongue trying to make his words come out confidently. He can still hear the underlying tremor. “My name is Jonathan Sims — male pronouns, please. I look forward to working with you from now on.” He inclines his head, partially to be polite and partially because he can’t hold eye contact any longer. He feels too exposed.

He chances a look up again, and the person is beaming even brighter than before. They hold out a broad hand, which Jon tentatively fits his own against. When they close their fingers they seem to swallow Jon’s hand whole. He’s so caught up in watching the space where his hand used to be that he doesn’t immediately realise the person is speaking. 

“Well, it is a _pleasure_ to meet you, Jonny. I’m Tim Stoker — also male pronouns.” His smile gets somehow wider. Jon didn’t think that could be physically possible. His voice flows, smooth and soft in the air. “Elias mentioned we were getting a new researcher; he _failed_ to mention quite how _lovely_ a researcher that would be.” This handshake has really gone on much longer than it should ever need to, now it’s just their hands clasped together between them. 

Jon can feel blood rushing to his cheeks and desperately hopes his skin tone will be enough to hide the furious red blush he knows would be there. Some of it must still show, because Tim seems to light up, eyes sparkling and smile positively radiant. It could also just be the way Jon’s grip has tightened on his calloused hand. 

“Oh. Um, well that’s — uh. I, um, I don’t think — that’s hardly relevant —“

“Christ, Tim, he’s barely though the door and you’re already accosting him,” a voice calls, coloured by restrained laughter, and then the other person Jon had seen pops out from behind Tim. Jon hadn’t even noticed them stand up.

They stick out their own hand to shake, and only then does Tim release Jon’s hand from his all-encompassing grip. Jon doesn’t move for a few seconds, caught in the lingering warmth, and then snaps out of his daze and reaches to take their hand. They’re shorter than Tim, probably about the same height as Jon, and their hand is smaller in his. The warmth is just the same. Jon inhales slowly, measuredly. 

“Hi! I’m Sasha James — female pronouns,” her voice sounds like a river, rushing and twisting over Jon’s ears. “It really is nice to meet you; I’m sorry that Tim got to you first.”

“Hey,” Tim laughs, eyes like sparkling gems when they swivel to look at Sasha, “I’m plenty welcoming. Didn’t you see this bonding moment we were having?” Tim gestures between himself and Jon, letting his palm come to rest on Jon’s shoulder. It feels like a brand, too hot even through the wool of his jumper and the cotton of his shirt. He wants to pull away. He wants to press into it until it engulfs him. 

“What I _saw_ ,” Sasha’s talking again, words almost muffled with how Jon’s head seems to be floating miles above the ground, “was you _flirting_ —“ Tim barks out a laugh when she jabs him in the side “—with the man before he’s even managed to get in the room.” She’s smiling as she says it, so Jon can only assume she doesn’t mind too terribly. He’s certain of it, when she turns back to Jon and says, “he’s not wrong though, you really are quite lovely.”

That brings him straight back down to earth. He thinks his face might be on fire; there’s really no way they haven’t noticed, now. Sasha laughs, but there’s no malice in her voice, and Tim smiles sweetly at her. 

He does eventually make it more than two steps into the office and then finally to his own desk, opposite Sasha, Tim on her right. They both fall into a rhythm, papers rustling, voices expanding to fit the room, leaning across the gap between them to share an especially ridiculous statement. Jon lets the sounds wash over him, watching the well-oiled machine running across from him. Whenever they catch him looking they smile, make a joke or ask if he needs anything. Always smiling, always genuine. His hand seems to tingle for hours after.

(Something in Jon wakes up as he sits there, figuring out how to fit himself into a completed puzzle. It stirs, shifts, opens its eye. It uncurls it’s fingers and gently plucks up a pair of gossamer threads that whisper _Tim, Sasha,_ and twine themselves around and around long fingers; around and around Jon’s heart.)

When Gertrude Robinson disappears, Sasha is promoted to Head Archivist and Jon and Tim are transferred to work as archival assistants. She doesn’t even stop to consider anyone else.

However. 

There is also a _dog_. 

Jon walks into the archives for his first day on the new job and there is a _dog_. A dog scampering around the stacks, shredding loose paper it finds on the floor, knocking over teetering towers of boxes. Jon spends two minutes and seventeen seconds standing in the doorway, accompanied by the dulcet tones of panting breath — the dog running rampant and Tim doubled over behind him. Jon can’t even hear his laughter anymore, just wheezing when he gets too close to asphyxiation. He is crying great, hiccuping tears. Jon has been an archival assistant for two minutes and seventeen seconds and he is already so, _so_ tired. 

The cause of this problem is made quickly apparent when Martin comes careening around a corner and almost crashes straight into what’s going to be Jon’s desk. He looks wildly up at the door: Jon, clenching his bag strap so tightly that he can feel the ridges of the seams imprinting themselves into his palm; Tim, currently useless. 

Jon doesn’t know why he’s surprised. This _would_ happen. Martin is . . .

Martin.

When the dog is finally gone, and the archives are in as much order as they can be without just burning the whole place down and starting over, Martin stutters and stumbles his way through many, many apologies, and then manages to sheepishly explain that Elias transferred him to the archives. 

Jon doesn’t _dislike_ Martin. He didn’t interact with Martin all that much before and, quite frankly, he’s happy to keep it that way. He just thinks that he is really a little ill-suited for this job. He hardly seems to have the skills necessary, and if he is capable of this level of disruption on his _first day_ on the job, then it’s really quite daunting to think what other disasters he could facilitate. 

Jon is perfectly indifferent towards him. 

And he’s _not hiding_.

(Even if he _was_ hiding, it wouldn’t matter: Tim and Sasha keep managing to find him. He goes as deep into the stacks as he can and they just materialise from between the shelves. They keep telling him that Martin’s nice, sweet, a little nervous but Jon doesn’t exactly have any room to talk. That doesn’t stop him from, very calmly and slowly, not-at-all running into the nearest aisle every time he catches a glimpse of a baggy jumper or the smell of black tea and warm honey.) 

(“Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, Jon.” He looks up from the statement he was reading and finds Sasha, towering over him with how he’s sitting on the floor and she’s wearing the really tall heels today, trying to see if Elias will actually do anything about it. Jon’s not going to ask how she found him, because then she’ll just say something about how she is one with the archives and Jon will not get an answer. He feels horribly like she’s interrupted him, but it’s not like he was doing anything anyway. 

“I don’t know what —“ 

“Come on, Sash.” Tim’s head appears over Sasha’s shoulder, grinning already, voice stained with mirth. Jon resigns himself to being bullied. “That’s not very nice,” Jon doesn’t like that tone. “You’ve got to use the right term.” Tim shuffles into the gap on Sasha’s left, shoulder brushing hers, still with that smile. “Jon, stop being such a dickhead.” 

Sasha snorts and Jon sighs and Tim looks far too pleased with himself.)

So, yes. Maybe Jon is just a tiny little bit apprehensive about talking to Martin. In the end, though, the choice is taken out of his hands. 

Martin finally manages to catch him. Jon’s spent going on three hours wedged between two boxes of statements, reading his way through each one. It feels like he can’t stop, his eyes dart from paragraph to paragraph trying to devour the words. He can almost taste the ink on his tongue. Maybe that’s why he misses the smell. He’s so absorbed in the printed fear that he doesn’t notice the soft, soft footsteps until he can see a pair of worn shoes just over the top of the page. 

He stops reading, his mind lurching with the shift in velocity, his body curling in to protect him. His eyes snap up and find Martin. He’s got a black mug in his hands, patterned with a mosaic of flowers, and his fingers are drumming restlessly against the ceramic, itching to fidget. His glasses are opaque from where Jon’s sitting, the hazy yellow lights concealing his eyes. 

“Um,” Martin starts, voice reedy and timid. Like a spring, trickling shakily down the side of a mountain. “Sorry, it’s just that, um, Sasha said, uh, she said that you would be here. And, um. I wanted to apologise? Or start over, maybe. Both.” He’s glaring down into the mug like it’ll produce a script for him to follow and make this conversation easier. “So, uhh, I’m. I’m Martin. Blackwood.” He seems to shrink back into himself with each new word, but he’s too tall for it to actually do any good and Jon’s position on the floor only cements that; he thinks absently of a hedgehog. “It’s. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, for, uh, for whatever it is you’re avoiding me about.”

Jon can hear the paper in his hands crinkling with how hard he’s clenching it. It sounds like an accusation. He hopes Martin doesn’t notice — if he sees how tightly wound Jon is that’ll only serve to amplify his own anxiety, and then where will they be. So he coughs, sets down the paper with deliberate care, and does his best to stand up from his cross legged seat without looking like too much of a walking catastrophe. He still only comes up to Martin’s chin, _fuck_. 

He tilts his head up in the way he knows makes him look like a pompous twat and meets Martin’s eyes. He can see them now: they’re golden brown, like warm honey. They’re so, so scared. 

“Yes. Hello.” Jon keeps his hands balled carefully at his sides. He hopes it just sounds cold and not like Jon is seconds away from shaking apart with terror. Martin nods. Neither of them say anything, only the sounds of the archives shifting and rustling around them permeate the silence. 

Then Martin seems to remember the mug in his hands. “Oh!” he lifts the mug a little higher in the air, bringing Jon’s attention back to it. “I, I made you some tea? I mean, you’ve been here all morning, so — so I thought it might be nice to, uh,” he trails off into a mumble, “to have some tea.”

Only now does Jon notice the smell. It’s mint. Jon loves mint. 

“That’s. Kind.” Jon’s hands flex, fingers straightening and curling and straightening and curling. “Thank you, Martin.” The name tastes almost familiar on his tongue. Martin smiles a wobbly smile, eyes losing some of the fear and shoulders coming down from his ears ever so slowly. 

“Uh — Well, hah, don’t. Don’t thank me yet: you still haven’t tasted it. It could be terrible.” His hands jerk forward, offering the mug to Jon. He reaches up, carefully wraps boney fingers around the mug, and jolts as his hands brush Martin’s. He does his best not to recoil. Does his best not to cling tighter. Instead he calmly, cooly pulls his hands in to his chest, cradling his gift beneath his chin and letting the steam fog his glasses. He thinks maybe he’s smiling. It could be more of a grimace. He’s not sure which one he wants. Martin’s gone red when Jon looks up at him again. 

“Well, that’s. That’s all I, uh, wanted to say!” Martin rocks back on his heels. His hands no longer have anything to keep them occupied so they twist together in front of him. “I hope. I hope that we can, um, get along together? Of course, since — since we’re coworkers now. Yeah.” Jon can see him swallow. He won’t look anywhere near Jon’s face. “So, I guess I’ll. I’ll see you. Around.” He finally looks back up at Jon, offers a fragile smile, and turns sharply on his heel to speed walk away into the labyrinthine shelves. Leaving Jon standing in the middle of the aisle, clutching his tea with unbearably warm hands. The tips of his fingers buzz. 

He stares at the spot where Martin disappeared until his glasses are completely clear. Then he raises the mug to his lips and takes a sip. 

It tastes good. 

(Long fingers string this new thread in with the other two, weaving them together —over, under, over — until they blur together. _Martin_ the voice murmurs.)

The Eye does not Love.

Jon does.

**Author's Note:**

> Jon is arrogant and annoying and contemptuous and uses big words when he’s defensive i can testify to this as a fellow insufferable arrogant prick
> 
> edit: just listened to the live show — i can’t believe i’m Right


End file.
